|
SOLO IN CORPUS
Rain on the window: dabs of glue
about to fix a sepia print
of Corinthian pilasters,
alternating dormers, pointed,
round. Lunch is a bottle
of Aussie shiraz, a ficelle
with saucisson, tomato,
olives aux herbes, taleggio cheese.
In Blake's "Gates of Paradise"
Air is a crouching man, chin
on knees, hands locked
over brow, dark-pupilled gaze,
hair smoldering desultory
through frozen fingers. Like Bonaparte
shitting himself rid of Waterloo,
he squats on a fat duvet of cloud
which writhes like sperm
in bath-water. This is what
it means to have no body,
to have imploded to no more
than a stone head projecting,
Luxuria, who lolls defenseless
in a torn white blouse
across the black backdrop
of star-infested night.
   
|
